A Gothic Tale

It is shortly after breakfast, though my gruel and hard bread is virtually untouched. Already I have taken to pacing my cold and dimly lit cell - corner to corner - nine paces and turn - nine paces and turn - nine paces and... Matters are weighing on my mind. While I am locked in here, he is free! No-one believed me - they all thought me a lunatic - that I am the monster...

September 6th, 1819

I, Johannes Wolfgang Stiegler, wish to relate my understanding of the truth of the recent horrors in the town of Stirlitz. It may be that what follows is nothing but the sick fancy of a madman: I truly hope it is so, for if it is true, I am forced to call into question everything I have ever been taught about the justice, compassion and goodness of God. Further, if what follows is true, then you must all know that the horror will not end with my death, or even with the death of the next poor wretch who falls prey to this evil. It will return again and again as surely as night follows day.

***

So far as I can tell, my story begins late last November in the little village of Schwartzhausen, some twenty miles out of Stirlitz, where I was visiting my family with my fiancee, Helena. Ah, Helena! I trust we will soon be reunited....

We were both born in Schwartzhausen, Helena and I. It was there we grew up together, until I was apprenticed to Herr Grümann, the master carpenter here in Stirlitz. It's not even two years since I left his service to establish myself as a journeyman carpenter... how quickly everything changes! Scarcely a year ago, my future was in my hands - now I have nothing but paper, a pen and a small bottle of ink...

I remember that day very well - it was a Sunday. There had been snow overnight and a further light dusting earlier that morning, but now the skies were clear: astonishingly blue overhead and paling to a watery white at the horizons. The winter sun was shining brightly, but the air was bitterly cold. All around us, the snow was beginning to melt in the early afternoon sun, but for now, it lay thickly enough to hide the dark earth and dead leaves. The whole world seemed so clean and bright and fresh, but beneath the snow, it was all decaying.

But our thoughts were far from such things as we strolled arm in arm along the banks of the frozen stream. I recall that the chill air had brought a lively colour to Helena's pale cheeks and that there was a mischievous glint in her eye that danced and sparkled like the sun on the snow. Impassioned whispers steamed in the cold air as we made our way to the woods.

As we entered the edge of the woods, Helena gave a little squeal of surprise as a melting icicle dripped water on her face. We hurried on, looking to renew our acquaintance with our old hiding places, but the path to the first of these was so overgrown, we couldn't get by. We headed off deeper into the woods in search of a second trysting place, but when we found it, it was already in use by two young lovers who were fairly mortified by us bursting in on them so unexpectedly. We left them and ran on, hand in hand, with peals of our laughter floating through the trees, until, as chance would have it, a heap of snow fell from a branch and landed on my head.

"I believe this is God's way of telling us to hold our passion," I said, as Helena laughed hysterically and I tried to empty the snow from the back of my shirt before it melted.

"It seems that way," said Helena, brushing the snow from my head while still laughing. We embraced and kissed, before continuing our walk at a more sedate pace.

We walked for some time, talking of the future, forgetful of the present. As we headed deeper into the woods, the trees closed over our heads, immersing us in the shade. We lingered in clearings where the sun poured through the trees, bathing us with its warmth, but its heat gradually became feebler. Silently, softly, it began to snow. We decided to head back for home. But the direction in which home lay was not easy to determine. We had wandered further into the woods than we had intended, meandering through the trees without paying much attention to which way we were going. And now the weak wintery sun was setting somewhere behind the clouds, and both dusk and snow were falling more heavily all around. We were lost.

It was Helena who first articulated the thought that was on both of our minds.

"There are wolves in these woods, aren't there?" she asked in an even tone.

"Yes, but I don't think we need worry about them. It's been a fairly mild winter so far, so I doubt they'd be hungry enough to attack us yet," I replied as lightly as I could.

"But they might..." she murmured.

"Stories!" I said dismissively. "Real wolves are wretched, cowardly things. If wolves are really so ferocious, do you think a boy and a dog would be enough to guard a flock of sheep against them? No, wolves have to be really desperate to attack people... it's just stories." I said reassuringly.

We trudged on in the gathering gloom. The wind was starting to pick up, blowing the falling snow into our eyes and numbing our faces.

"What time do you suppose it is?" I asked.

"I don't know... four, five o'clo- - what was that?" she said, suddenly freezing.

"What was what?"

"Did you hear it? The howling..." she asked, wide-eyed.

"It's just the wind. Look, stop worrying about wolves - they don't hunt during the day anyway... I'm more worried about the scolding we're going to get for missing supper..." I laughed, turned and started walking again.

In truth, my real worry was the cold, which was now painfully sharp. I knew that if we were forced to spend the night in the woods, we would be in real danger of freezing to death. We hadn't the means to build a fire. Fortunately, we were both well wrapped up - I wondered if I should suggest finding some spot where we might shelter from the worst of the wind and snow. I stopped and turned to say as much to Helena, when the wind suddenly died down and a long, mournful howling was suddenly audible away to our right.

Helena, who was some dozen paces behind me, also paused and listened - even in the fading light, fear was plainly visible on her face. I gestured for her to hurry and she covered the intervening distance in a stumbling run.

I threw an arm around her shoulders and murmured: "I think we should try to find some suitable bush to shelter under for the night. Quickly now - before the light fails us altogether!" No sooner had I said that when the howl was answered by a second somewhere behind us.

There are few experiences more nightmarish than fleeing through a dark forest: every bush snags your clothing; every tree-root conspires to trip you; every branch whips across your face. Through the deepening darkness and the falling snow we ran blindly, struggling against rising panic. Terrible forms loomed in the shadows: a bush or a huge wolf? A leering face or a gnarled tree? Who could say? The wind was howling all around us now - the snowfall becoming a blizzard. Utterly lost and disorientated, we stumbled into what we initially took to be a clearing, but on pausing briefly to get our bearings, we found it was a road of sorts. What a relief!

"What road could this be?" Helena asked breathlessly.

"I don't know, but I say we follow it!"

"Which way?"

Just then we heard, unmistakeably, the howl of the wolves - in the trees on the opposite side of the road and from down the road to our right.

"That decides it! We go this way!" I took Helena by the hand and we ran up the road to our left.

The road was apparently little used and was in quite bad condition so we found ourselves slipping and stumbling almost as frequently as we had in the woods. What's more, without the trees to shelter us, the gusts of wind were more bitter and violent and with every turn in the road, the wind also seemed to turn too, so that it was always full in our faces. Relief at finding the road quickly faded as it gradually began to rise and exhaustion began to overcome us.

We had slowed to a walk when Helena suddenly cried: "Johannes! I see a light!" She pointed ahead where the road made another turn and surely enough, a light was dimly visible amongst the trees. At that moment I saw also, from the corner of my eye, a low, dusky shape flit between the trees to our right.

"Come on, Helena! Run!"

With renewed hope, we began to run.

I cannot easily convey how I felt at that last desperate stretch - how painfully slow we seemed to move; how heavy my limbs felt; how my heart was hammering in my throat so hard that I could scarcely breathe... and expecting a wolf to tear at my hamstrings at any moment!

But there it was! The light, which, as we approached, proved to be a lantern hanging over the huge wooden door of a great stone building. Finally, we slammed into the door, hammering on it with our fists...

"For God's sake, give us shelter!"

I chanced a glance behind us and could see, lurking at the edge of the circle of light, four wolves, standing in the road. Movement to the sides caught my eyes and I counted three more in the trees. Mercifully, they seemed reluctant to come any closer. I said nothing but renewed my efforts at pounding on the door.

Then, there was a sound of a bolt being drawn and the door opened.

***

The creature who opened the door presented a wonderful sight. She was a small figure in a pure white dress, with long, straight black hair. Her skin was remarkably clear and pale, but it was her face which was most striking. It wasn't a conventional beauty, like my Helena - her face was small and round, rather like a doll's; her mouth was very small and her eyes astonishingly large and sad. It was a fascinating face - beautiful, in a freakish sort of way: a face that excited wonder more than want. She held a candle, shielded against the drafts by her small hand. Curiously, even as she spoke, she left an impression of silence.

She ushered us into the entrance hall, which, though sparsely decorated, was itself larger than any house in Schwartzhausen. We stood shivering with cold, exhaustion and receding fear as we explained our situation to this girl (for she seemed to be little more than a girl - surely no more than twelve years old). She then lead us through a door to one side, down a corridor and into what appeared to be the servant's quarters. We huddled together at the doorway as she whispered something to an exceedingly tall, wiry and ancient looking man in a valet's uniform who sat by the stove.

"Please, be seated," he said in a deep, melodious voice, indicating towards the bench by the table. He then asked a few questions concerning ourselves before rising: "I will inform the Master of your presence."

"The master?" I asked.

"Count Belisaarov."

"He is here?" asked Helena in surprise.

"He is always here," replied the valet before leaving the room.

Helena and I looked at each other. Though neither of us had ever seen Count Belisaarov before, we both knew who he was. We had both been born as serfs, and until Napoleon and his army had over-run the region and abolished serfdom, he had been our feudal lord.

"What now?" Helena whispered. "What if he wants to see us?"

I shrugged helplessly. "Be humble, be honest and pray he doesn't begrudge us our freedom," I replied quietly.

We sat in tense silence for some minutes before the valet returned and announced: "The Count will see you now."

We exchanged glances and followed the valet out of the servant's quarters, down the corridor and up a narrow spiral flight of stairs. At the top of the stairs was a door which opened into a discreet recess at the end of a corridor. Unlike the corridor downstairs, this one was broad and well lit by regularly placed candles in sconces on both walls. The lower half of each wall was covered by exquisitely carved wooden panels depicting hunting scenes.

At the end of the corridor, we turned right and came to a door. The valet knocked. An indistinct voice answered and so the valet opened the door and introduced us to the Count Belisaarov.

The Count, for all our expectations, proved to be a curiously unimpressive looking man: he was neatly dressed, fairly stocky, but only of average height. His hair was mostly grey and he seemed to be well into middle-age. In truth, I was far more impressed with the meal that was laid out before him. There were trays of cold meats, cheeses, bread rolls, small bowls of butter and honey and an array of sauces and savouries; various sausages, a roast chicken and a steaming joint of venison, as well as numerous sorts of pastries and decanters of wines and brandies... it was a feast sufficient for a dozen people to gorge themselves, and though I hadn't the faintest idea what most of it was, I know it smelled delicious.

The Count stood up and with a faintly ironic bow said: "Welcome my friends - please, join me for supper..."

We hesitated for a moment, overawed by all this opulence and painfully aware of our own damp and bedraggled appearance, but the valet and another old man who stood behind the Count fetched us chairs and took our wet coats and hats.

"Please, help yourselves..." the Count reiterated, gesturing to the food on the table.

Helena and I glanced at each other. When would we ever get another chance to eat like this? Frankly, we stuffed ourselves, much to the Count's amusement.

At first, we said little - we were too busy eating - but once our initial hunger was satisfied and we started sampling the wines, we became extremely merry, forgetting our apprehension and all of our difficulties of earlier. We even drank a toast to our host's health, which drew another ironic bow from our former master.

I recall feeling uneasy as the night wore on - I was growing tired and bleary. The Count was saying little, while Helena talked and talked. In truth, I didn't like the way he was looking at her, but more to the point, I didn't like the way she was behaving: she was giving herself airs like she was a duchess and kept relating absurd little stories to mock and humiliate me. I wouldn't have minded if we had been amongst friends and equals, but the fact was, just a few years ago, we had both been his property and so her behaviour was entirely inappropriate. Nevertheless, I smiled complaisantly at her insults and resolved to have words with her as soon as we were alone.

At last, even Helena began to tire as the sour red wine took effect. The Count stood and rang a bell and in a moment, two servants appeared. "Show our guests to their rooms," he instructed.

"Whoops - I'm afraid I'm a bit drunk..." said Helena as she accidentally knocked an empty glass over.

"I never would have guessed..." I muttered sourly. Indeed, I only realised just how drunk I was myself when I tried to stand up.

We thanked the Count for his hospitality and followed the two servants down a corridor. I was a little surprised when we came to a door at the end of the corridor and I was told this would be my room. Of course, as Helena and I weren't yet married, this was quite proper I suppose, but I was nonetheless irritated when she was lead off to a room elsewhere. I would have at least felt better if I'd known where her room was....

Drunk and weary as I was, I took little note of the bedroom, save that the bed was large and extremely comfy. The servant placed a candle on the bedside table and left me to undress. Having done so, I got into bed, blew out the candle and fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

***

A friend of mine, who is a notorious drunkard, has often told me about some of the strange places he has woken up: in barns, in hedges, in bawd houses - but I bet he has never woken up to such a strange sight as this: above me, a highly ornate plaster ceiling; around me, some extremely expensive looking draperies; beneath me, a soft, clean mattress so comfortable it sapped my will to move; over me, fresh, clean sheets of finest linen; on the floor, thick fur rugs; beside me, a beautifully carved bedside table. Indeed, my first impression was that I was still asleep and that all of this finery was a dream. It was only when I happened to move my head a little too quickly, causing severe pain in my brain, that I realised that my surroundings were real. Certainly, my hangover was all too real.

Wincing at my thunderous headache, I hurriedly got up and got dressed, but then found myself at a loss as to what I should do, until I located a bell cord like the one in the dining room which Count Belisaarov had used to summon the servants. I gave it an experimental tug, and less than a minute later, a servant appeared at the door.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"It's approaching eleven o'clock," he replied. "Are you ready for breakfast?"

"I suppose so... where is Helena? My fiancee?"

"So far as I'm aware, she's not yet awake. This way sir."

I followed him down the corridor to the recessed door I recalled from the previous evening, and down the stairs to the servant's quarters, where we found the valet once more sitting by the stove and the young maid polishing cutlery.

"Ah! Good afternoon, Herr Stiegler!" he said dryly. "I trust you slept well? Maria, prepare some breakfast for our guest."

"Thank you," I croaked, taking a seat at the table. "Do you know if my fiancee has stirred yet?" I asked, for I was concerned to know her whereabouts.

"Not yet," the valet replied, "But once Maria has finished making your breakfast, I'll send her up to wake her. I expect you're both anxious to be getting home?"

"Yes - we should really be on our way to home to Stirlitz by now..." I replied, wondering about how our families would react to us going missing like this.

"The Master has instructed his coachman to take you as far as the turnpike - it's scarcely a mile from there to Schwartzhausen..."

"Why, thank you!" I uttered, somewhat surprised. The valet shrugged.

Presently, breakfast was ready: bacon, mushrooms, buttered bread and strong black coffee, and Maria, the young girl who had answered the door the previous evening, went to fetch Helena.

I had finished my breakfast by the time they returned. Helena looked extremely rough - very pale and bleary, and she was unable to finish hers. I recalled her behaviour of the previous evening and wondered if we'd get a chance to discuss it in the coach, but decided against it: she was plainly still in no state to discuss anything. And did I detect a hint of shame in her manner that morning...? I thought so, though whether it was for her drunkenness or her insulting behaviour, I couldn't tell. I did, however, notice that Maria was watching her in a strange, mournful way.

It was approaching midday by the time the coachman appeared - a huge, silent man with a bushy black beard. Maria fetched our coats and hats and we thanked them all once more for their hospitality. I had tentatively asked if the Count was around for us to thank in person, but I wasn't sorry when the valet informed us that he was unavailable.

The coachman lead us into the yard where our transport was ready and waiting. It was a magnificent, if sombre looking coach - mostly black with silver fittings, and with the Belisaarov family crest painted on the sides. It was drawn by four large horses.

We were both fairly dazzled as we stood in the yard - not by the coach, but by the sunlight, which like the day before, was warm, bright, and painful to behold as it reflected off the pristine snow. We were both relieved when the coachman directed us into the cab, which was dim and gorgeously comfortable.

We hadn't been long underway before I began to see the drawbacks of coach travel - the constant juddering and swaying of the coach on its suspension. It wasn't long before I was feeling nauseous, and the constant flickering of the sun amongst the trees wasn't helping either. Fortunately, I found there were some thick blinds above the windows, which I drew, plunging the interior of the coach from dimness to darkness. Helena, at least, suffered little: with her head resting on my arm, she was fast asleep.

I suppose I must have dozed off too, for I got quite a start when the coach was suddenly flooded with blinding light, amidst which a large dark figure suddenly appeared. As I gathered my wits and my eyes adjusted a little, I saw it was the coachman who had opened the door - we had reached the turnpike.

I woke Helena and we clambered out of the coach, wincing in the bright light. We thanked the coachman but he didn't respond - merely, mounted his seat again and turned the coach around and headed back up the road. We turned ourselves and walked the remaining mile home in silence.

***

We were both made to suffer for our little adventure - when we didn't return in time for supper, the whole village formed a search party, and they were none to pleased when they found out that we were quaffing fine wines and stuffing our faces while they were out searching for us in the blizzard. We spent several unpleasant hours apologizing to our irate neighbours for their trouble and hearing endless sarcastic variations of "I think I'll get lost in the woods next time I fancy venison and wine for supper".

Helena was out of sorts for some time afterwards - she was still weak and listless two days after we got back, by which time I was eager to get back to Stirlitz. However, as she was plainly in no condition to walk the twenty miles into town, she stayed with her family, while I went on ahead. The delay in returning to Stirlitz had meant that I was behind with my work and so I had to work til late at night in order to catch up with it. It was an exhausting few days and I was glad that Helena wasn't there to distract me.

I was, however, overjoyed to see her when she finally arrived with her brother early on the following Monday evening and was particularly pleased to see that she was back to her old self again.

The weeks that followed were happy ones as we prepared for our first Christmas in our own home together. It was an extremely busy time too, as besides my regular work, there was piece work from the toy maker, Herr Horowitz, making wooden fortresses and carving toy soldiers which Helena painted.

We never did get round to talking about that night with the Count, though I was often reminded of it by his coach, which was suddenly a very frequent and conspicuous sight about the town. I never saw the Count, or any of his servants other than the coachman, but nevertheless, I was unable to forget his mocking manner and the predatory look in his eyes as he watched my Helena.

It was New Year's Eve when my life began to fall apart. We were in Heinrich's Tavern, joining in the celebrations. It was a large and raucous crowd that night: there was much singing and dancing and drunken chaos. On any other night of the year, the town watch would be kicking people out and closing the tavern down, but not that night. Indeed, there were several members of the watch in there, and they were among the most rowdy and inebriated individuals in that crapulent crowd.

It must have been half past ten when I missed Helena. The last time I saw her, she was talking to the butcher's wife. Next time I looked for her, she was gone. I searched the tavern for her, asking various people when they'd last seen her, but given the state of the crowd, none of the answers were of much use.

Worried now, I left the tavern, wondering if perhaps she'd felt ill and gone home. The streets were busy at that hour with hawkers selling gin and roasted chestnuts and bowls of sauerkraut to the revellers. There had been heavy snow earlier but now it was all turned to foul brown slush and great dirty puddles beneath the tramp of many feet. Splashing through it all indifferently, I hurried home.

Our house was several minutes walk from the town square where most of the crowds naturally gathered. Moving away from the square, the crowds gradually dwindled to nothing and the snow became cleaner. Our own street was deserted, though singing could be heard in some houses where there were private parties. I opened our front door and kicked the snow from my boots.

"Helena? Helena!" I called.

I quickly checked each room but found no sign of her. With an increasing sense of dread, I even checked my workshop, before searching the house once more. But she wasn't to be found. My stomach now in knots, I thought frantically where she might be. Just about all of our friends and neighbours were in Heinrich's, and I couldn't think of anyone who might have invited her elsewhere. I thought of all of the strangers who came into town for the New Year from the nearby villages and became morbidly certain that something had happened to her.

The hours that followed were truly hellish. I ran back to the town square, trawling tavern after tavern looking for her, then out into the square, accosting the crowd for some clue to her whereabouts and then getting into a fight with some swinish sot who said she was tired of sharing her bed with an ass and so had ran away with a stallion.

Ah, what thoughts didn't cross my mind as I roamed the freezing streets until the early hours, looking for my Helena? Kidnap, robbery, rape, murder - I was out of my mind with fear for her safety. Little did I know, the truth was worse than any of that!

Finally, stumbling home, overwrought and weary, who should I find, unconscious and freezing on my own doorstep?

"Helena! Helena! Where the hell have you been!?"

I dashed to her side, feeling her horribly cold and pallid skin, then throwing open the door, I picked her up and carried her upstairs to bed. Acting quickly, I removed her wet clothes, wrapped her in blankets and began rubbing some life and warmth back into her chilled limbs. Gradually, she came round, but was too disoriented to respond to my questions with anything but incoherent mumbling, so I left her to rest.

I woke her shortly after midday and spoon-fed her mushroom soup. I was glad to see her appetite seemed good, though her complexion was still a cause for concern: fair-skinned though she usually was, she now looked downright colourless.

It wasn't until that evening that she was sufficiently recovered to answer my questions - or rather, to evade my questions! Ah, Helena... you always were a hopeless liar!

"What happened last night? Where did you go?" I asked gently.

"I don't know," she sighed. "I suppose I must have been a lot more drunk than I thought, because I don't remember anything. I certainly can't recall leaving Heinrich's...."

I didn't believe her: last time I'd seen her, she was tipsy, yes, but she was still a long way from being blind drunk. And besides, it was clear from her manner that there was something she wasn't telling me. However, I didn't push the matter, though the maggots of doubt and suspicion had found their way into my heart, where they began to gnaw away at my insides.

***

If the weeks before the New Year had been almost blissful, the weeks following it were anything but. They were wrought with increasing tension and disharmony. Helena was up and about within a couple of days, but she was never back to her old self. On the contrary, it seemed all the life was gone from her - all her warmth - gone; all her passion - gone; all her playful humour - gone. She said little and smiled still less. Sometimes I'd leave my workshop and go to the pantry for a glass of beer and I'd see her standing in the kitchen with a haunted expression in her eyes and when I asked her what was wrong she'd try and laugh it off. She pretended everything was alright, but as I've said, she was never a convincing liar.

She had always been in the habit of visiting friends in the afternoons, after we'd had dinner and she'd finished the housework and she would return in time to prepare the supper and she'd always tell me, regardless of whether or not I wanted to hear it, all of the latest gossip and news. But now she often came back late and exhausted, saying little unless prompted and what little she did say was uncharacteristically vague. I've often been astounded by the female propensity for discovering every detail and circumstance about the lives of others and in this respect, Helena was absolutely typical. But now she seemed disinterested.

My suspicions were inflamed by a chance encounter in the street with Helga, the butcher's wife, who asked after Helena and mentioned that she hadn't seen her for a while. But just two days earlier, Helena had explained her being late by telling me she had been talking to Helga.

I can scarcely describe my state of mind at this time: bewildered, sick, scared, enraged. It was made all the worse because I didn't feel as though I could confront her about it as she had recurring bouts of sickness - weakness, dizziness, a deathly pallor and a quick but feeble pulse - which seemed to be growing increasingly severe. At times she hallucinated and the visions plainly terrified her, but she always flatly refused to describe them. In desperation, I brought in a doctor who diagnosed her as anaemic, but was at a loss to find a cause for her illness. Meanwhile, she grew evermore thin and gaunt.

Matters came to a head in the middle of May, by which time I was all but convinced that she was carrying on an affair. I confess I was boiling with jealousy when one afternoon I happened to see her walk quickly past my workshop window on her way down the street. There was a time when she would have told me where she was going, but now she habitually slipped by in silence. I decided to follow her.

Laying down my saw and quickly removing my apron, I left by the workshop entrance and fell into step some twenty paces behind her. She walked with her arms crossed and her head bowed, quickly at first, but gradually slowing as she made for the fashionable part of town where most of the bourgeoisie live. She was almost dawdling by the time she reached a street overlooking the park and actually stopped for a moment before flitting quickly through an open gateway. Speeding up myself, I reached the gate just in time to see her disappear into the tradesman's entrance of the house.

Continuing a little way down the street, I studied the house with a mixture of curiosity and resentment. It was a rather grand building: four storeys, with a simple but elegant white facade. I wondered who it belonged to. Then catching sight of the town watch, I decided to head into the park before they took it into their heads to start questioning me as to why I was staring at that building.

I found no peace in the park - only memories of happier times when we used to stroll there on summer evenings and Sundays. No solace in the past; only the torment of the present. Wandering aimlessly round the miniature lakes and under the trees as they gently shed their blossoms, I felt a sense of desolation that was violently at odds with my surroundings - a dead thing amidst the spring-time bloom. I decided to head home to wait for Helena.

I left the park feeling dazed - so much so that I inadvertently strayed onto the road and was bawled out of my brooding state by the driver of an open two-horse carriage, carrying some well- to-do couple. I stepped off the road and the carriage trundled by, the male passenger glaring at me disdainfully. For a mad instant, I considered chasing the carriage, dragging him out of it and smashing his face in, but the moment passed. Instead, I turned towards home only to stop dead in my tracks at the sight of a small, familiar figure across the street - it was Maria, the young serving girl from Count Belisaarov's household. I watched in dumb amazement as she turned into the very same gateway that Helena had slipped through earlier.

So it was his house!

At that instant, I was overcome by such a wave of despair that my legs actually buckled and I slumped sideways on to the park's railings. I gripped them tightly, feeling the paint flakes crumble away from the rusty iron in my hands. I recalled Helena's shame-faced manner that morning in the kitchen of Belisaarov's house. I remembered the predatory look in his eyes. So my life had been in decay for as long as that. My Helena had been seduced by the Count.

With a great effort, I pushed myself up off the railings, turned and walked slowly for home. My heart was hammering hard and heavy - my pulse pounding in my head. The spring sun was warm and bright, but I shivered and my eye-sight seemed dimmed, as if I were in a shuttered room while outside it was the height of summer.

I remember little of the hours that followed, for as soon as I got home I fell into beer and plum brandy, drinking heavily without really knowing if I was trying to revive myself or numb myself even further. Gradually, the light failed - by the time I finished the brandy, it was quite dark. I sat in the silent kitchen, my thoughts swinging wildly between confrontations and explanations. After a while, I fumbled for the matches, lit a candle and prepared a lonely supper of buttered bread and cold beef.. I dimly recall hearing the bells ringing nine o'clock, and there was still no sign of Helena. She had been out for best part of seven hours. She was never normally this late. Inevitably, I started worrying about her.

Struggling to my feet, I picked up the candle and staggered down the passage to the front door. I opened the door and looked out into the night for some sign of my Helena, but the street was empty. I resolved to go out and look for her, but first I needed to go to the lavatory - nervous tension on top of heavy drinking demanded it.

While out the back, I heard the clatter of horses hooves in the street, a pause and the light thud of a door slamming, before the clattering resumed and faded into the distance. Back in the house, I grabbed my coat and made my way to the front door. Dragging it open, I saw to my dismay, a body lying in the road.

"Oh Christ, no..." I moaned as I ran forward, fearing the worst.

It was Helena, and to my vast relief, she was still alive - barely. Cold and unconscious, her gasping breath was alarmingly weak and thin. Sweeping her up from the deck, I ran with her into the house, cursing myself in the most savage terms for drinking all the brandy. Putting her into bed and swaddling her with warm blankets, I prayed and begged for her to wake up without effect. In desperation, I tore down the stairs and out into the street, banging on my neighbour's doors, howling for help. Frau Dähnhardt fetched brandy while Schmidt's three boys were sent running in search of a doctor.

The brandy revived her briefly: her eyes burned feverishly while her breathing was torturous to hear. I held her cold, almost lifeless hand in my own and wept bitterly as she lapsed back into unconsciousness. One of the boys reappeared at the bedroom door and whispered that Doctor Schliemann was busy with another patient. Frau Dähnhardt took him out onto the stairs and told him to find a priest.

As it happened, the priest proved to be far easier to find than the doctor that night: he arrived in less than fifteen minutes to give Helena the last rites; the doctor didn't arrive until well after midnight, and then it was only to confirm that there was nothing that could be done to save her. With the doctor gone, Frau Dähnhardt left me alone with Helena. I was totally numb by his point: I felt empty and lifeless - much like my fiancee. Her eyes were glassy and unfocussed, her breath and pulse increasingly slow and weak.

She somehow held on till dawn: as the sun rose, her breast fell for the last time. My Helena was dead.

***

Somehow, despite all my expectations, life went on, in a mechanical sort of way. The sun rose and the seasons progressed as they always did - not that I paid much attention to such things any more. I worked so that each day passed and fell unregarded, like the wood-shavings about my feet. The gloom which had settled on me that day never lifted - I lived every day in a perpetual dusk, working more by the feel of the grain of the wood and the tools in my hands than by eye- sight. Quite quickly, I fell into the habit of sleeping at my workbench, rather than clambering up the stairs to an empty bed - my face buried in wood-shavings when once it had been my Helena's hair.

It was on such a night as that, as summer was passing into autumn, that I found myself suddenly awoken by a scratching sound at the door of my workshop. I sat up abruptly and stared into the darkness. The sound stopped. I fumbled about on the bench for the matches and candle, but found neither. Across the room, the moon was spilling through the window, partially illuminating a cabinet I was working on. The scratching noise resumed. Standing, I carefully made my way to the door, so as to avoid walking into anything. Reaching for the latch, and grasping the cold iron of the door handle, I paused and listened. The scratching was definitely at the door.

"Who's there?" I called, a little apprehensively. The scratching stopped again.

Steeling myself, I shifted the latch and slowly opened the door.

Outside, sat on it's haunches, was a large black dog, rather like a shaggy Alsatian in appearance. It watched me, intent and unmoving, it's eyes gleaming in the moonlight. I stared back, with a growing sense of unease.

"Get away," I mumbled through dry lips. It cocked it's head slightly to one side and continued to watch me. I stared back, unable to take my eyes from it's own. I was becoming unnerved by the thing - it seemed to be reading my thoughts.

Suddenly, it got up and padded quietly away down the street. It only moved a few yards before pausing to look back at me for a moment. Then it turned again and continued. Feeling dazed, I stepped out into the street and followed it.

The night was cold but the sky was clear; the air still and the streets silent. Above me the stars shone like diamonds in a vast coal seam, and the moon was approaching fullness. The great black dog continued a dozen paces ahead of me, and seemed to know I was following though it didn't spare me another backward glance. I followed as though in a trance, scarcely noticing as the houses slipped by, while for it's part, the dog never paused or strayed from it's purpose to sniff around as dogs commonly do. Presently we reached the edge of the town and came to the wrought-iron gates of the cemetery. Here the dog paused and looked at me expectantly. Slowly, I approached the gate, which was strangely unlocked. The dog watched me with the same steady gaze. I grasped the cold iron of the gate and pushed it ajar. The dog immediately flitted through it. Helpless to do otherwise, though a great sense of foreboding was growing inside me, I followed it.

The dog was moving faster now, along the paths, while my own foot-fall was slowing to a point where I was practically dragging my feet. Amidst the shadows and pools of moonlight, I was, at times, losing sight of the hound. It didn't matter though, as I knew with a dreadful certainty exactly where it was leading me. As I turned a corner, I saw the beast leave the path and slip between the trees and graves. Reluctantly, I followed it and found it waiting for me by the grave of my Helena.

I had scarcely came to a stop, when the black dog, now in a state of excitement, began sniffing frantically around the grave. The earth over it was still bare of grass, so it's position was clearly marked. I recall the shudder of revulsion and rage as one of the animal's great black paws stepped on the grave, and to my horror, it began to dig.

I tried to cry out but the sound died in my throat. I swooned and fell to my knees. I tried to grab the evil beast to drag it away, but found myself clawing instead at the cold, damp soil of the grave, manically tearing away clumps of earth, feeling with a morbid intensity the dirt beneath my nails and the worms tangled round my fingers, while to my side, the black fiend was barking ferociously, as though to waken the dead. From the corner of my eye, I saw mysterious white figures flit between the trees and gravestones. Away in the distance, I could hear all of the dogs in the town take up the savage chorus, until the demonic climax when the great black hound suddenly gave a long, drawn-out howl and everything turned to darkness.

***

It was mid-morning when I awoke at my workbench, my neck and back stiff and aching, my beard full of wood-shavings. Recalling the happenings of the previous night, I examined my hands, but neither they nor my clothes showed any trace of dirt. Yet still the memories persisted with such lucidity, I found it hard to believe it had been only a dream. After a cursory breakfast, I resolved to visit Helena's grave, to see what I might discover there.

The day was generally overcast, though the clouds were ragged as a beggars cloak, so that the sun sporadically shone bright and warm through the rents and tears. Occasionally, it started spitting on to rain.

I followed the same route as I had when following the dog, but it's appearance was now very different, as the streets were now full of tradesman's carts and gossiping housewives and children running errands - all the mundane details of a small provincial town.

I found the gates of the cemetery wide open. Inside, I slowed to a stroll, no longer thinking about the night before, but instead about home - about the woods and fields around Schwartzhausen where we played as children... wondering if there was ever any clue that my life would turn out this way.

In the strange manner of a drunkard somehow finding his way home, I shortly found myself standing by Helena's grave. There was no sign of it having been disturbed.

With one hand resting atop of the stone, I knelt down and touched the damp earth of the grave. She was down there - just a few feet away... no further from me than when I was in my workshop and she was in the kitchen, singing as she kneaded dough to make bread.

I wished I had brought flowers to cover the naked earth - the dark soil amidst the grass looked too much like an open wound. I consoled myself with the thought that one day the grass would grow over it and the wound would be healed.

After some moments, I stood and walked from the grave and back to the path, my head down and lost in thought. Eyes still fixed on the gravel path, I slowly made my way to the gate, but before I reached it I was brought to a sudden halt by the realisation that I was about to walk into something. Looking up, I saw that I had almost walked into a man standing at the edge of a great throng of people - a funeral evidently and an extraordinary one at that judging from the size and character of the crowd of mourners. Moving to the man's side, I asked who it was.

"You mean you don't know?" he exclaimed in astonishment. "Why, it's that poor murdered girl, Eliza Bauman!"

"Murdered!" I cried loud enough for others to turn and glare at us.

"You haven't heard? Where have you been these past few months! She's the fifth to have met such an end..." he said in an agitated whisper. Quieter still, he hissed: "It's said her throat was torn out... as if by an animal... But no other wounds... You really didn't know? The whole town has been in uproar - armed mobs patrolling the streets at night, looking for him..." he finished in hushed amazement.

"I've been... away," I answered weakly, shocked at how isolated from the life of the town I had become since Helena's death.

In silence, we watched the girl's funeral and the rain began to fall steadily. On returning home afterwards, I noticed the door of my workshop was scratched.

***

The days which followed were hazy and indistinct, as I came down with a fever and was forced to take to that lonely bed, where I was tormented by those strange thoughts and visions which occur when the boundaries between sleep and wakefulness dissolve.

At times I relived scenes from my childhood - scenes which, though vivid, were unreal. I saw myself playing hide and seek in the woods outside Schwartzhausen, and while looking for a hiding place, I inadvertently blundered into one which was already taken by a girl named Mina, for whom I had a childish infatuation... except now it wasn't Mina, but Maria the maid, with her huge mournful eyes, and as we giggled and shushed each other, we heard the noise of someone approaching the thicket - Helena, not the child but the woman had found us and now we fled in blind panic through a dark forest, being chased by something, though we didn't know what as we daren't turn to look, for to look was to be seen and to be seen was to be caught...

On the third day of my sickness, I awoke from one nightmare to be faced with another.

I had dreamt of the cemetery - dreamt of being chased through it by a huge black dog, the size of a pony. I was running, desperately looking for Helena's grave, though every time I thought I recognised it, the tombstone gave the wrong name... I was certain that if I could find her grave, I would be safe because that ground was sacred and the beast wouldn't dare to approach it... Could this be it? Dieter Neumann! Or this...? Alexander Trinkhaus! Where is it? THERE! I dove onto the grave of my Helena, but to my horror, the hound did not shrink from this sacred ground: as I turned onto my back it leapt at me and pinned down my shoulders with it's huge black paws... I felt it's hot, stinking breath on my face and-

...and something cold gently stroked my burning cheeks.

I opened my eyes. The room was dark, but light from the full moon streamed through the window, splashing a silvery pool across the bed and part of the floor. A figure in white sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over me.

"Helena! How... I thought you were..." I struggled to sit up, but she effortlessly pushed me back down. Dumbstruck, I looked into her face: in the ghostly light, it looked hard and impassive, and her eyes gleamed as she watched me. There was something strange in her eyes - a faint hint of cold contempt. She neither smiled nor spoke - just continued stroking my cheek and watching me silently. Then suddenly she leaned close to me, her face next to mine; her breath was vile, like that of a dog and I couldn't help but try and recoil from it as she whispered to me in a raspy tone I had never heard from her before:

"I will come back for you."

She drew away, with a faint lascivious smile on her lips and stood up to walk away. It was only then that I noticed another figure, dressed in black, standing at the door and smiling with undisguised malice. It was Count Belisaarov.

***

I was awakened by a scream. Sitting up in bed, I tried to gather my befuddled wits, only to have them scattered again by a second scream coming from outside in the street. Tossing back the bed sheets, I looked out of the window. It was early morning, not long after dawn and the sky had that amber glow to it as the sun began it's ascent. Outside, Frau Dähnhardt was running back across the street to her house, screaming for her husband. Up and down the road, faces were appearing in doors and windows, and soon people were out in the street, crowding around my front door.

Struggling to my feet I went downstairs as quickly as my weak and aching body would allow me, opened the door and was met by a crowd of my neighbours and a corpse on my doorstep.

It was a girl, perhaps eight or nine years old - her blonde hair stained and clotted with blood; her lifeless eyes staring up at me like those of a doll. Her neck was a gory mess of torn skin and congealing blood. The front of her blue dress was stained darkly with it. The step and indeed the actual door were thickly spattered with blood, which had ran off to collect in glistening pools between the cobblestones.

Overwhelmed by this slaughter, and not knowing if it was real or another fevered hallucination, my knees buckled and I collapsed in a dead faint.

***

I was revived in my kitchen by Herr Schmidt and a bottle of brandy. The kitchen was crowded with my neighbours, where they stood around talking in a confused babble. People were wandering in and out of my house at will. Presently a magistrate arrived and a chaotic inquest began in my kitchen, and as the body was found on my doorstep, I was the first to be questioned, though I had perhaps the least information to give. Perhaps unsurprisingly, my claim to having been oblivious to events due to illness was met with some suspicion, though several of my neighbours testified that I hadn't been seen and my workshop had been silent for three days past. Moreover, as it was obvious looking at me that I had been, and in fact still was sick, so the magistrate began looking elsewhere for witnesses.

I sat in the chair at the table, helping myself to the brandy until it was taken away to help revive the girl's mother who had apparently collapsed in the street on seeing her dead daughter. Between the fever, the shock and the pre-breakfast brandy, I was feeling fairly out of it - detached from my surroundings, and isolated from the crowd of jabbering neighbours. My thoughts were likewise elsewhere: a strange mixture of memories and associations, coming together at odd and unexpected angles.

Presently I became aware of Hans Gemutlich, who lived several doors down, asserting loudly that he had heard a carriage in the street last night, between two and three o'clock.

A carriage.

I remembered hearing a carriage too, the night I found my Helena all but dead in the street. I remembered that strange visitation just hours earlier by the Count and my dead fiancee; I remembered his malevolent smile and her icy touch and cold, glassy gaze. I remembered the great black dog - a creature who was reckoned to be the Devil in bestial form - digging up my Helena's grave. I remembered how the wolves had chased - no! driven - us to the Count's door, and the predatory look in his eyes as he watched my Helena... and the sickness which first fell on her that same night.

Then I remembered the stories we heard as children that said the Belisaarov's were vampires. I had never understood if it was meant figuratively, in the sense that they mercilessly exploited the peasants, sucking our blood like leaches or some other parasite - or if it was meant literally. Now, with the recognition of how I have been stalked by the Count, and a child lying dead at my door with her throat savagely torn out... now I knew.

***

By midday, I had the house to myself once more, and after a simple meal of bread and cheese, I went into my workshop, where I began to prepare for the task ahead of me. I do not claim that this task was born of devout piety. I didn't pray for guidance. My motivation was altogether more human: I wanted justice - and I was going to get it by hunting down Belisaarov and killing him.

All morning I had sat at the kitchen table, outwardly silent and still, while inside I was fermenting pure rage - rage enough to drive a stake into Belisaarov's heart.

Oh yes, I know all the old stories of how to deal with vampires: garlic and holy water and such like. But in my heart, I have no faith in such things - only in good sharp points and blades.

I took great care in preparing the stake. Rather than put my trust in mere wood, I drilled a hole down a length of oak, inserted a good iron nail in to it, and glued it in place before sharpening the wood so that the nail emerged to form the tip of the stake.

With the stake completed, I also took up a sturdy hatchet which I used for cutting firewood and set to sharpening it. The back of the head was flat and it had a good weight to it, so it could serve as both the hammer to drive the stake and the blade to remove the head. Besides, I found something pleasing in the thought of a Count losing his head to a peasant's axe.

Thus armed, I waited until five o'clock before setting out for Belisaarov's townhouse, reasoning that at that time, the streets would still be busy enough that I wouldn't draw any attention from the watch or any vigilante mob as I might after dark. And if the stories were true, it'd still be light enough that I might catch the Count napping...

The day was mild and clear as I walked unobtrusively through the streets of Stirlitz. As I passed the carts and the gossiping housewives, I heard snatches of conversations about the girl found dead at my doorstep that morning - Anna Strauss, was her name - and I smiled inwardly to think that by nightfall her death would be avenged, for I had no doubts that it was Belisaarov who had killed her and the others before her - just as I was certain he had killed my Helena.

Presently I came to his house and I slipped through the gate. Strolling up serenely up to the door of the tradesman's entrance, I rang the bell and waited for the answer. After a lengthy moment, the door was answered by the ancient valet.

"I am here to see the Count," I told him with a smile.

He looked me up and down, evidently not recognising me and replied:

"The Count does not wish to see you," and with that he made to close the door.

In an instant I shoulder-barged the door, knocking the old man clean off his feet. Grimly, I stepped inside the house and tried to step over the stunned valet, but he suddenly grabbed my ankle with surprising strength and tripped me over. In a flash, he was on top of me with his wiry hands clenched around my throat, his thin and wrinkled lizard-like face twisted into an expression of frenzied hate. Reaching into my coat for the hatchet, I grasped it by the handle and slammed the butt into the side of his head once, twice, three times before he fell to one side. He wasn't incapacitated for long though and in a moment was on his hands and knees and trying to stand up. Still sprawled on the floor, I shifted my grip on the hatchet and brought the back of the head down hard on the back of his. The was a wet, crunching thud and he collapsed face down on the floor instantly, his body twitching as blood began to run from his broken skull.

I paused for a moment, watching and listening and breathing hard, but there was silence and the old man had stopped moving. Carefully, I climbed to my feet, now hardened in my resolve.

Ignorant of the layout of the house, I set myself to the task of searching for the Count room-by- room, floor-by-floor. In this manner, I cautiously cleared the ground, first and second floors, with the stake held firmly in my left hand and the hatchet at the ready in my right.

The upper floors were dim as every window was shuttered and no lamps or candles were lit. Tensely, I crept up the stairs and to the first door, pausing to listen before carefully opening the door slightly, and then pushing it wide with my foot. I stepped cautiously into the room, and there sitting on a couch was a figure dressed in pure white.

"Helena!" I cried in surprise, and for a moment relaxed my guard.

Just then, there was a hiss behind me. I turned as a small pale figure leapt at me like a giant albino rat. Instinctively, I turned away slightly and the creature latched on to my back and brought a claw round to scratch at my face, screaming and spitting venom and curses. Without thinking, I span and leaned forward, throwing the tiny figure over my shoulder and onto the floor in front of me. In the space of a heartbeat, I knelt down, slammed the stake into it's chest and followed it with a tremendous blow from the axe head. The figure gave a high, breathless scream before blood welled up from her mouth. Momentarily stunned, I saw it was the maid, Maria; her huge eyes now virtually popping out of her skull. A flash of white from the corner of my eye caused me to look up - Helena had fled through a side door.

"Helena!" I yelled after her. Pulling the stake from the lifeless body of the serving girl, I stood up and followed through the door, my earlier caution now forgotten.

"Helena! Wait!"

Somewhere ahead of me I could hear doors crashing open and closed. I ran through rooms scarcely pausing to look at them, only noting which doors were still swinging on their hinges and which direction the noise was coming from. Catching one door as it was closing, I rushed into the room: Helena ran into the corner, but it was a dead-end with no more exits. Turning suddenly in a crouch, she snarled at me - an inhuman sound coming from a face that resembled a demon more than the woman I had loved.

"Helena-" I suddenly stopped as her appearance and manner sank in: the venomous hate burning in her eyes - that was not my Helena... that was-

Suddenly I was struck hard across my shoulders and I fell to the floor in surprise. Looking up, I had time to see Count Belisaarov, his face contorted with fury before he fetched down another blow to my head and it all went black...

***

The End